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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27702274">julie.</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quecksilver_Eyes/pseuds/Quecksilver_Eyes'>Quecksilver_Eyes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>i look at you and there's no speech left in me [11]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Julie and The Phantoms (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Some body horror imagery, in which carrie is very poetic once more, in which carrie loses julie and gets her back, in which music strings them up, in which the world keeps on going, references to self harm, trans Carrie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-07 04:07:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,007</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27702274</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quecksilver_Eyes/pseuds/Quecksilver_Eyes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Julie smiles at you, with those soft eyes, with her hands on your cheeks and her life tangled in her laughter. Her mother strings dahlias across the entire house and Julie strings the world on her piano and into your chest and you; you dig your mother’s teeth into the soft palms of Julie’s hands. Her blood drips on your pink shoes and your pink skirt and your pink cheeks and all that you have swallowed until it lies, blooming rot, in the cavity of your stomach. Perhaps these teeth are yours or perhaps they are your mother’s – faceless, wordless, voiceless thing that your father keeps tethered to his ribs and his bones and the back of his teeth, nameless – perhaps they are all that lies nestled in your father’s jewelry.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Julie Molina/Carrie Wilson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>i look at you and there's no speech left in me [11]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015690</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>julie.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princeyssash/gifts">Princeyssash</a>.</li>



    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>her breath in my mouth;<br/>
her lips on my skin;<br/>
her music on my tongue;<br/>
                I lose her.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>You are born into a glass-shard world, built on your father’s grief dripping from the roof of his mouth into his lungs in an ever changing tide tied to a moon that no longer has light to reflect. You are born with your mother’s teeth, and your father’s glass surrounding you like-</p><p>Julie smiles at you, with those soft eyes, with her hands on your cheeks and her life tangled in her laughter. Her mother strings dahlias across the entire house and Julie strings the world on her piano and into your chest and you; you dig your mother’s teeth into the soft palms of Julie’s hands. Her blood drips on your pink shoes and your pink skirt and your pink cheeks and all that you have swallowed until it lies, blooming rot, in the cavity of your stomach. Perhaps these teeth are yours or perhaps they are your mother’s – faceless, wordless, voiceless thing that your father keeps tethered to his ribs and his bones and the back of his teeth, nameless – perhaps they are all that lies nestled in your father’s jewelry.</p><p>Perhaps, after all, your palms are lined with barbed hooks, something like your nightmares risen from within your chest to claw at Julie’s flesh. Perhaps it is simply that Julie laughs and you ache and Julie touches you and you ache and Julie sings and Julie –</p><p>You ache.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Do you even remember what you said, with that taste on the tip of your tongue, with Julie’s lip gloss still on your skin?</p><p>Do you remember the blood dripping from her palms and her teeth and the dimple in her cheek, clinging to your canine teeth?</p><p>Do you remember the dahlias, still?</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Here’s how this story goes, every time, with every beat of your music deep in your bones:</p><p>There are no dahlias in the house anymore, and Julie’s laughter has long since left every razor-sharp edge you’ve found to balance on until you’ve cut open the soles of your feet and the seams of your lives – spread open and held up into the California sun until you lie, splayed and giggling underneath the tight weave of that silk-life. Your father replaces every mirror and every tile with his own hands until they’re trembling so much that he can barely hold up a guitar at all. Dirty Candy is splattered in your room, their wigs on the floor, their mouths around your music; bubblegum spun.</p><p>How long until your muscles ache so much that you can barely walk? How long until all that your father has laid on your shoulders and all that Julie spits at you in between classes slips from your calloused hands? Your father doesn’t take off his jewelry, not even at night when he stands in the unlit kitchen and eats meat until –</p><p>He’s a vegetarian, see.</p><p>You were born with his glass around you, see. Julie has always shattered it on impact, with her soft hands and that tooth-gapped smile. With her chin pushed towards you and her teeth as sharp as yours and then;</p><p>Julie doesn’t speak to you. She doesn’t play, she doesn’t sing, she doesn’t smile. The smell of dahlias is no longer in her hair and you’ve not touched her in a year.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In another story, you pull yourself up by nothing but your courage and the voice you’ve molded yourself into to look Julie in the eyes again after the holograms have flickered and died. In another story, you watch her sit down by her piano, her fingers on the keys, and hum something that might be her mother’s or maybe hers or maybe it’s <em>yours</em>, and you lose your breath and your voice at the sight of her; butterfly-studded. A breath. A step.</p><p>Sit down next to her.</p><p>She doesn’t look at you. There’s thread woven into her hair and an ache in your fingers. Blue. Pink. Purple. Her smile pressed to the crook of your neck. Her world in your hands or maybe yours in hers, the taste of sun ripe strawberries at the back of your tongue and smeared on your cheeks. Her giggle against the hairs standing up at the back of your neck.</p><p>Julie’s hand spread on the piano bench, her hair heavy on her back. The projector flickers.</p><p>In another story, you open your canine-filled mouth. In another story, Julie looks at you, with those dark eyes and the butterflies fluttering on her shoulders. In another story, you touch her hand with trembling fingers and something locked behind your teeth.</p><p>In another story, you sit behind that piano in the flickering projector light, giggling.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In this story, you leave the show before it’s even over, with Nick’s words buried deep underneath your skin, and the stretch of Julie’s voice dragged into your larynx. In this story, your father’s hands are warm and solid on your back, his shirt a wet thing pressed against your cheeks. In this story, he takes you to the Oprheum, with something buried in his teeth that you can’t quite place. On stage, the holograms flicker. Julie spins about herself, laughing. Purple. Pink. Blue.</p><p>There’s something wrong with the holograms. They’re smudged around the edges; frayed, and Julie looks at them like they’re a revelation stumbled onto this stage. The song is missing the drums until –</p><p>The song is missing its bass until –</p><p>The song is missing the guitar until –</p><p>Julie <em>smiles.</em></p><p>In this story, you pull yourself up by your voice and your pink and your own teeth-studded hands; you reach for her. Julie spins about herself, jumping, and smiling at you. Behind her, the holograms flicker away.</p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>She still tastes like strawberries, even after a year, still sun-ripe and warm underneath her fingertips. This time, your hands come away clean. This time, Julie comes away giggling.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>her breath in my mouth;<br/>
her lips on my skin;<br/>
her music on my tongue;<br/>
                I kiss her.</em>
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